


Havenport

by BlueMasquerade



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Destiel Harlequin Challenge (Supernatural), Historical Fantasy, M/M, Magic!Castiel, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death (Mentioned), Non-Graphic Violence, Scholar!Castiel, investigator!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueMasquerade/pseuds/BlueMasquerade
Summary: Castiel cleared space on his desk by the expedience of sweeping the previous contents to the side. He set the bundle down in the center of the surface and studied the knots in the rope before expertly untying them.The book was old, its leather bindings cracked and crumbling. He carefully opened the cover to reveal the pages within, each hand cut, the edges beautifully deckled, the text written in pen and ink.“This is written in ancient Enochian.” Castiel looked up, gaze narrowed. “Where did you obtain a book written in ancient Enochian?”“Is that what it is? All I could tell is that it sure as hell isn’t English.” Mr. Winchester grinned, a dimple flashing in his cheek.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 118
Collections: Destiel Harlequin Challenge 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the 2020 Destiel Harlequin Challenge. Thank you to the mods for running such a fun challenge, and all the work they put in to finding summaries to work from!
> 
> Special thanks to Amethystaris, who helped tremendously to get me going again when I was stuck and provided so much help. Love you!

“You’re late, Dr. Novak,” Mrs. Crombie said, gesturing for Castiel to turn around so that she could help him with his coat. “This is very unusual for you.”

He winced, feeling guilty. Castiel prided himself on his punctuality and reliability. “Yes, well, I didn’t sleep well, and then overslept after I finally did fall asleep. My apologies.” Lately he’d been prone to an overactive imagination during the dark hours of the night. Last night he could have sworn he heard the strangest cries, almost human, though logic insisted it had to be the wind off of the sea, perhaps birds. When he’d gotten up to check that the windows were closed as tightly as they could be he thought he saw a shadow of movement scuttling between the low windblown shrubs.

Given that it was the new moon, it should have been too dark to see anything—but there had been a slight green-tinged glow coming from the northeast, in the direction of the rocky section of coastline. That too made him uneasy. It had started some two months ago. When he’d asked his colleague, Dr. Engelbret, about the phenomenon, he’d suggested that the bioluminescent mosses inside the sea caverns had perhaps become excited and with atmospheric conditions, were visible from a greater distance than customary. That sounded unlikely to Castiel, but Dr. Engelbret was the expert in natural history, so he’d convinced himself to defer to his judgment.

Then he’d heard a growl that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Most likely that had been a dog, and yet he’d still felt uneasy. The result was tossing and turning in his bed for hours before finally falling into a fitful sleep.

She frowned slightly, looking him over. “You do look a bit tired. You need to stop staying up too late reading. It’s not good for you. But in any event, it’s not me you need to apologize to. The Director, however, that might be a different tale.” She shook out his coat in the hallway before hanging it on the hook just inside his office door. “You had a visitor today. The Director wasn’t pleased that you weren’t available.”

Castiel blinked at that. “A visitor? Me?”

“Yes, I know, quite unusual when you’ve probably had four visitors before this in your entire tenure at the museum.” She looked around the office, gestured at the pile of books on the floor before his desk. “You should move those, put them properly away.” There were bookshelves built into every wall, floor to ceiling. The ceilings were high, as well, so Castiel had managed to bully the museum administration into acquiring a rolling ladder for him. Not only were the shelves filled nearly to overflowing, his desk and the floor beside it also held stacks of neatly arranged books and journals.

“But I’m using them, and when they’re there, I know precisely where to find them.”

“The guest was Mr. Richard Roman.”

Castiel looked at her, surprised. Even with as little attention as he paid to local gossip, he knew who Richard Roman was. The man had moved to Havenport the previous autumn, purchasing the old Debensham estate on the cliff overlooking the town, harbor, and sea. The nature of his wealth and his business was still a mystery, provoking more interest than might otherwise have arisen. “Why would he wish to speak to me?”

“Apparently Mr. Roman is a bibliophile.”

That got Castiel’s attention. “Oh?”

“Yes. I overheard him speaking with the Director. It seems that he’s a collector of rare books, and potentially interested in making a substantial donation to the museum, both of some books from his personal collection and a financial donation in exchange for naming the collection after him. He wishes to speak with you, as our resident expert in old books written in dead languages.”

“Rare works,” Castiel absently protested. ‘Old books’ indeed. “And they’re not all dead languages. Though the more interesting and valuable ones are.”

Mrs. Crombie gave him a patient look. “The Director will wish to speak to you as soon as he knows you’re here. If I were one to wager, which of course I am not, I would wager that he will insist you pay a call on Mr. Roman.”

Castiel scowled. On the one hand, he disliked interacting with people, particularly wealthy people. In his experience they were usually convinced they were better than others and exhibited little concern for the happiness or welfare of those they considered beneath them. His experience was extensive. His own father was one of the leading financiers in Boston, and throughout his childhood he’d been around the leaders of that city as they sought to make business deals with Charles Novak.

On the other hand, acquiring rare and valuable books required money, and the ancient texts department at the museum had to compete with the other departments for resources. He’d heard that a collector in Edinburgh was planning to part with some particularly valuable works that Castiel quite frankly wanted. Owning them would increase the museum’s prestige immediately, thus leading to more opportunities and a stronger reputation. He didn’t care that much about reputation and prestige for their own sakes, but as a means to an end. If people knew about them, they’d seek Castiel out as a consultant, and he would be able to study more works.

If this Mr. Roman might advance his career, he supposed he could tolerate meeting with him.

Mrs. Crombie looked around his office. “Good luck,” she said, then smiled tightly on her way to the door. “You’ll need it.”

She left the door open behind her, again. He groaned. It was deliberate, he knew. She knew he preferred to leave the door closed. It wasn’t hiding, he insisted. He was minimizing distractions so that he could concentrate on his work.

Castiel debated the merits of seeking out Director Holloway versus waiting to be summoned. Going down to the Director’s office on his own initiative would doubtlessly be the smarter move from a political point of view. He frowned at the thought. He disliked office politics intensely. If he could, he’d happily stay ensconced in his third-floor office all day long, surrounded by his precious books. Books were comfortable companions, undemanding, generous. He could find everything he needed in his books, and they would never look at him as though he were unworthy of their time. Books would never consider him a disappointment.

“Ah, excuse me, sir – are you Dr. Castiel Novak?”

Castiel looked up at that, his old chair creaking as he shifted. What on earth was going on? Two people looking for _him_? On the same day?

Oh. Whoever this man was, he was wickedly attractive. His face was perfectly proportioned, with ridiculously long gold-tipped lashes framing his stunning eyes. He’d either neglected to shave or his beard grew quickly, as his jaw sported a thick stubble. His clothing was neat but slightly worn, his wool vest faded in places. His shirt was buttoned up around his neck, but he wore no tie.

The man took off his hat and pressed it against his chest. “Are you? Dr. Novak?” he pressed.

“I am.” Castiel scowled at him. Maybe he’d take the hint and leave.

“Excellent.” He smiled and stepped into the small office, looking around briefly. “You have a lot of books.”

“If you know who I am, then you know that I am the Curator of Archives here. That should logically imply there might be books.”

“An excellent point,” the man said, having the gall to step completely into his space, as though acknowledging his presence equated to permission to enter. Castiel was about to correct him, when the bundle he carried in his previously hidden arm came into view. That bundle was distinctly book-shaped and wrapped in a protective canvas cover tied with fine rope. His protest died in his throat, destroyed by the sudden intense need to see what this man had brought.

“My name is Dean Winchester. I’m a private detective, and my most recent case has—”

“Give it to me,” Castiel said, standing up and holding out his hands for the book. When Mr. Winchester didn’t comply quickly enough, he wiggled his fingers. “The book. Give it to me.”

He handed it over. “Be careful, it’s –“

Castiel fixed him with a glare. “I am the Curator of Archives at the Hieronymous Society Museum of Antiquities. Surely you did not intend to caution _me_ to be _careful_ with a _book_ because it’s _old_.”

“Ah.” Mr. Winchester scratched at the back of his neck, having the grace to look abashed. “I suppose that would be unnecessary, at that.”

“Quite.”

Castiel cleared space in the center of his desk by the expedience of sweeping the previous contents to the side. He’d been working on his own notes, nothing rare or precious. He set the bundle down in the center of the surface and studied the knots in the rope before expertly untying them. He retrieved a pair of cotton gloves from his desk drawer and quickly pulled them on before unwrapping the protective cover.

The book was clearly old, its leather bindings cracked in places, crumbling in others. He carefully, oh so carefully, opened the cover to reveal the pages within, each hand cut, the edges beautifully deckled, the text written in pen and ink.

“This is written in ancient Enochian.” Castiel looked up at his visitor, gaze narrowed. “Where did you obtain a book written in ancient Enochian?”

“Is that what it is? All I could tell is that it sure as hell isn’t English.” Mr. Winchester grinned, a dimple flashing in his cheek.

Castiel tightened his lips. He would not be charmed. Clearly Mr. Winchester relied on charm to get his way, and undoubtedly had success with his efforts. That smile, the twinkle in his green eyes, the way his nose crinkled… Castiel had a weakness for green eyes and freckles. He refused to let that weakness influence him in any way.

Winchester’s grin faded, and he cleared his throat. “Yes, well.” He reached up to rub at his chin. “Can you read it? As I was saying, I am a private detective, and this book may be relevant to a case I’m working. I need to know what it says.”

The book lay there, tempting Castiel with its mysteries. “I can translate it,” he finally said. “It will take some time, and my rates are not inconsequential.”

“Understood. How long will it take?”

“It will take as long as it takes.”

Mr. Winchester leaned forward, hands on either side of the book, using his advantage of height while Castiel was seated in an attempt to intimidate. “I need to know. Surely you must have some estimate.”

Castiel was not impressed. “As I said, it will take as long as it takes. For the proper fee, I will make it my priority, but the language still requires time to translate. The script is not our current Arabic alphabet, as you must have observed. It’s not a cipher. It’s an entirely different language, with different grammatical construction.”

“All right, then, what’s your fee?”

Castiel quoted a number. He was tempted to make the number ridiculously high, but… well. The book was intriguing. So he kept it high, but not outrageously so, to see what kind of response he might get.

Mr. Winchester pulled out a wallet and slapped a number of bank notes on the desk. “This should be enough to retain your services. The balance will be payable upon completion of the work.”

Castiel eyed the cash on his desk, already regretting this. Still… his gaze drifted back to the book. He nodded once. “Acceptable.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Winchester grinned again. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see how far you’ve gotten. I’m willing to accept transcripts along the way.”

“How very generous of you.”

“It’s important.”

“So you have indicated. Repeatedly.”

“Indeed. With that, then, I bid you good day, sir. Until we meet again.”

Castiel nodded curtly, returning his attention to the book.

If he looked up to watch Mr. Winchester leave, and happened to observe how strikingly his coat fit across his broad shoulders, then no one need ever know.

He cleared his throat and turned his attention to the book. He took a moment longer to admire it and ponder the possibilities. Possibilities were always exciting. Would this be the work that made his name in his field? What mysteries would be revealed on these pages? The possibilities were endless. It could be an accounting of harvests, dull on the surface but fascinating as a clue to how people long ago lived, what they ate. It could be a history of someone important, or a book of tales long lost. It could be a religious text of some sort, or a translation of a work from another culture. He savored the thrill of anticipation for a moment before gathering his paper and fountain pen, ready to begin his work.

Any thoughts of Director Holloway and Mr. Richard Roman were completely forgotten.

Castiel hadn’t come across any works in Enochian in quite some time. It was an exceptionally rare language with very few extant works – which was a large part of his excitement over the book coming into his life. Before starting his translations in earnest, he picked up one of his own books and read through it, letting the familiarity of the work remind him of how to read and understand the language. He’d always had a knack for languages and recognizing patterns and symbols. When he’d realized those talents could be used to study ancient texts in dead languages, he’d known his life’s purpose.

Once he felt confident that he remembered how to read Enochian, he picked up the book and started reading. A formal translation could wait until later; he wanted to get a sense of what the pages contained.

It didn’t take long before he discovered that the book was a personal journal, written by someone who seemed to have lived in eastern Europe some centuries ago. Fascinated, he let himself become absorbed in the words of the unknown author.

“Dr. Novak.”

Castiel startled, looking up to the door. Mrs. Crombie stood there, her head tipped down, looking over the tops of her spectacles at him.

“Mrs. Crombie.”

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Dr. Novak?”

He glanced towards the small, high window in his office. It was dark beyond – but it was early March, and the sun still set before it was very late. He could pull his pocket watch out and check, but that would mean admitting defeat.

She sighed, shook her head. “It’s after eight. Pack up your work and go home, eat some dinner. The book will still be here tomorrow.”

His stomach chose now to make a rumbling noise. He opened his mouth to protest.

“Ah ah,” she said, shaking her finger at him. “I’ll hear none of that. Go. You work too much. You’re still a young man. You should be out socializing.”

“I prefer the company of books to that of people. Books are far more accommodating, and far more intelligent.”

“Be that as it may, young man, I still must insist that you get some supper. I heard your stomach. If you won’t listen to me, listen to it.” She crossed the distance between them and patted him on the shoulder.

Castiel considered protesting further but closed the book instead. When first he’d started his tenure at the Museum, he hadn’t known what to think about Mrs. Crombie. She’d been the one to help him find his house and had introduced him to his favorite pub – owned by her brother. He wasn’t sure why she’d chosen to adopt him. Maybe because he was by far the youngest of the Museum’s experts, or maybe because he was new to Havenport and hadn’t known anyone else.

Whatever her reasons, he was reluctantly grateful.

“Very well, Mrs. Crombie. I’ll go eat and retire for the evening.”

“I’ll just wait here. Dust the books while you pack up.” So much for any thoughts of waiting until she left. She was clever that way.

“Yes ma’am.” He carefully wrapped the book Mr. Winchester had provided, slipping it into his satchel while her back was turned.

Just because he was going home didn’t mean he couldn’t spend a little more time with the book once he’d eaten.

Stepping outside the imposing gray stone of the museum, Castiel glanced up at the sky. Tonight was very dark, either the new moon or very close to it. It was cold, as well, with the damp wind blowing in off the Atlantic. The streetlamps cast pools of yellow light along the way, supplemented by light from the windows of the buildings. The museum stood on a hill overlooking the harbor and the business district. If he headed east, he’d eventually reach the water. His cottage, however, was located a mile or so to the north. Castiel wrapped his blue scarf snugly around his neck, pushed his hat down more firmly to secure it against the wind, and headed off.

The streets were relatively quiet tonight, likely because of the chill. The temperatures were certainly warmer than the dead of winter. Havenport could be dreary during January and February, but soon there would be spring flowers, and the last of the snow would disappear. Castiel spent most of his time indoors, given the delicate nature of the books he was usually working with, but when he indulged in reading less valuable books for pleasure, he liked to sit outside and enjoy the sunshine and the sound of the sea.

He was halfway between the harbor and his home when he heard a strange sound, unusual in the city. It sounded like nothing so much as high-pitched whistling, louder and sharper than a police whistle, and with an odd reverberating quality. He cringed against it; it hurt his ears. He straightened and looked about, but saw nothing to explain the sound. Well. This _was_ a city. There were many corners, angles, and obstructions to line of sight. The source could be right around the next corner and he would never know. He thought it originated farther up the hill, but it was difficult to be certain.

Castiel hesitated. Should he investigate? It was likely nothing of importance. Certainly he’d never heard anything quite like it before, but that didn’t mean much. It could be something as simple as one of the residents practicing some unusual musical instrument. Yes. It was almost certainly entirely harmless. Even if it wasn’t harmless, what was he going to do about it? Hit it over the head with his book satchel?

He snorted indelicately. Yes, that would be quite an entertainment for anyone who happened to be watching. Still, he was uneasy. He hoped this wasn’t a portent of the night to come. He wouldn’t be happy if he had another night like the one before, filled with strange sounds, strange lights, and the hints of unexplained movement.

Shaking his head, he adjusted his scarf and resumed his path.

His cottage was on the outskirts of town, barely in Havenport at all. He had neighbors, but they were spaced farther than in the city proper. He opened the gate and crossed to his door, pausing for a moment on the doorstep.

His father would look down his nose in scorn at the house. It was small, perched up on a ridge overlooking the ocean, with a modest yard. In the new-moon darkness it was difficult to see anything, but the whitewashed cottage walls reflected what little light came from the city. When he’d seen it he’d been instantly charmed. It had reminded him of the gardener’s cottage of his childhood. Growing a garden wasn’t easy with the salt winds from the Atlantic, but he’d been able to coax some flowers to bloom during the spring and summer months on the leeward side of the structure.

Alfie would have loved it.

Thoughts of Alfie brought a familiar pang. Castiel took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Time and distance softened the ache, but it never entirely went away.

Well. Nothing to be gained by standing on the step. He unlocked the cottage door and went inside, lighting the oil lamp and going about his evening routine. After making himself a simple meal, he settled down to read through more of the strange book Mr. Winchester had delivered to him.

“Good afternoon.”

Castiel looked up from his desk to see Dean Winchester standing in his doorway again.

“Is it?” He glanced towards his window. Judging by the angle of the sunlight, it was indeed afternoon. Well. Losing track of time like that wasn’t uncommon for him. There were days when he was squinting for a long time before he realized the entire day had passed and it was growing dark outside once more.

Winchester chuckled. “It’s afternoon, in any event. I will leave it to you to determine whether or not it’s good.” He came forward and seated himself without invitation in the chair opposite Castiel. “I know it’s late, but have you taken your lunch yet? I thought I could treat you, and you can tell me what you’ve found so far.”

Castiel leaned back in his chair, raising a brow. “Translations take time. What makes you think I would have anything at all to tell you yet?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “Just hoping, I guess. Besides, I haven’t been in town long, so I haven’t met many people.”

“I have a meeting scheduled for later this afternoon.” Director Holloway had left a note in his office requesting his attendance at 3:00 this afternoon. The meeting was undoubtedly about Mr. Roman’s intentions regarding the rumored donation.

“Then we’ll keep it quick. Come on, indulge me.” He looked at Castiel hopefully, the green of his eyes practically glowing.

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. Something about Winchester shouted ‘danger’. Castiel didn’t want to examine the whys behind that too closely. Yet despite the danger, he was also intriguing. God help him, but Castiel was tempted. He didn’t usually indulge temptations. The price was often too high. But maybe just this once.

“Very well.” He closed the book he’d been reading and stood, reaching for his coat and scarf. “But I will hold you to the ‘quick’ part.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.”

The day was more pleasant than yesterday had been, with a hint of warmth and coming spring in the air. Perhaps he hadn’t even needed the scarf. Rather than wrapping it around his neck, he left it draped over his shoulders.

They headed downhill, towards the ocean. They occasionally had to sidestep other pedestrians as well as puddles of melting slush.

“Any suggestions for a good, filling luncheon? I’ve not been in town long.”

“The Rusty Anchor is good.”

“Interesting name. How’d it come by that?”

“There is a rusty anchor outside the entrance. It may have originally had a different name. I’m not certain.”

Mr. Winchester laughed. “Well. Makes it easy to identify, I suppose.”

“Indeed.”

Soon they were seated at a table in a corner of the Anchor. The luncheon rush was over, so there weren’t many other patrons around. Castiel preferred it that way. He didn’t particularly enjoy being in crowds.

“Have you lived in Havenport long?” Mr. Winchester asked after they placed their orders.

“About three years,” Castiel replied. “I was fortunate to receive the museum post upon my return from England.”

“England, really? Impressive. Why were you there?”

“I attended university at Oxford.”

“Why’d you choose that, rather than Harvard or one of the schools on this side of the pond?”

Castiel’s mouth tightened. He supposed it was a natural question, but it skirted uncomfortably close to deeply personal information that he wasn’t prepared to share with people he’d known for years, let alone a new acquaintance. Attending Oxford hadn’t exactly been his choice. If the choice had been his to make, he would have attended one of the Ivy League schools, close to home. “Oxford is an excellent school,” he deflected.

“I’ve heard as much, yes. Tell me, are those Brits as stuffy as I’ve always heard?”

Castiel just looked at him, disdaining to answer.

Winchester sighed. “Yeah, okay, that was rude. My apologies. I don’t always censor my speech as much as I should.”

The server arrived with their lunches – a bowl of chowder with a chunk of hearty bread for Castiel, and shepherd’s pie for Mr. Winchester.

Castiel watched him take a big bite, chewing enthusiastically. “’S’good.” Winchester was apparently a man who was open about his pleasures. That thought made Castiel shiver.

“Indeed.” He dipped his spoon into his chowder far more fastidiously, chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “You do realize it’s far too soon for me to have completed the translation work.”

Winchester nodded. “Yeah. Yes. But I figured you might have gotten at least a bit done, right? Enough to get a first take on what it is.” He settled back in the chair with a studied casualness, but a tension in his shoulders belied the posture.

Interesting. Whatever was going on, Castiel would wager it meant a great deal to the other man. Either he was extremely dedicated to his career, or this was somehow more personal.

Castiel tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. “I have read through some of the book. It is not at all what I was expecting.”

“Well go on, man. Don’t leave me on tenterhooks, here.”

“It seems to be some sort of journal or memoir. The text isn’t particularly organized. It will go off on a tangent for many paragraphs, and whether it returns to the initial thought or not is inconsistent. I’ve skimmed through the entire book, reading what I can without researching the symbols. I have enough familiarity with Enochian to be able to read some passages, enough to get the gist of what is being said even if some words and phrases will require further research and analysis.”

“So what’s your first impression, then, of the author?”

Castiel took a sip of his ale, using the moment to gather his thoughts. “Frankly? That he – or she, it’s certainly not clear – is slightly unhinged.”

That got him a quick laugh. “Slightly unhinged, is it? Why do you say that?”

“Because they seem to have a rich fantasy life. There are notes about research into legendary sorcerers, such as Merlin, Hecate, John Dee, Roger Bolingbroke, Circe, Malak, Morgan le Fay… and also, I think, commentary on exploring the use of magic.”

“Oh yeah?” Mr. Winchester smiled crookedly at that.

“I’ll have to spend more time working with it. My first translations are rudimentary, not rigorous. There are symbols that I did not understand, which could change the meaning.”

“Seems unlikely that you’d be completely off the mark, though, doesn’t it?”

“Unlikely, yes,” Castiel agreed. “I am confident in my overall assessment of the nature of the text. What is it that you are looking for from it?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. It’s the sort of thing that I’m hoping I’ll know it when I see it.” He grinned when Castiel made a face. “Not generally in favor of following your gut instincts, are you, Cas.”

“Cas?”

“Oh… is that too much of a liberty? Dr. Novak is very formal, and Castiel is a very interesting name, but…”

Castiel felt his face grow warm. If Mr. Winchester was mentally addressing him by his first name, did that mean he felt they could become friends? “Cas is… acceptable,” he said, feeling awkward.

“Thank you. And please, call me Dean.”

Why did that request make him feel warm in the center of his chest, spreading out to his fingertips? Castiel felt flustered, which happened all too frequently if he was honest with himself, but this felt different somehow.

“… Dean.”

He grinned, reached out to tap Castiel on the bicep in a friendly manner.

They continued to talk about what Castiel had read so far in the book, and branched out to discuss how he had come to study Enochian in the first place. His answer boiled down to ‘because he could’ – and since it was a language that to the best of anyone’s knowledge had never been spoken in the vernacular, it was unique and therefore interesting.

Just as they were finishing their lunch and preparing to leave there was a disturbance at the entrance to the Rusty Anchor. A group of young men, employed at the docks by their clothing and the smell of the ocean that clung to them, came inside and made their way to a booth nearby.

“I’m telling you, Petey, it was a body,” one of them said, leaning close to the others.

Dean tensed, his shoulders rising for a moment before he forced them down again, though he did angle his head slightly to listen better. Castiel was reminded that the man was a private investigator.

He turned towards the other group. “Excuse me,” he said. “Pardon for interrupting. When did this happen?”

“Just last night. Found it out by the docks. I caught a peek at it before the police got there. Young guy, dark hair. I think he was Asian, which oughtta narrow it down, right? Not too many Asians around here.”

Dean’s expression turned bleak for just a moment before he put a mask of neutral interest on once more.

“And you don’t know who it was?”

“Not me, no sir.”

He turned towards Castiel. Castiel was horrified, but knew he would have nothing to add, and if anything, might get in Dean’s way as he tried to learn more. He reached into his pocket and withdrew enough money to pay for his lunch. “I am afraid that I must be going if I am not to miss my appointment this afternoon. It’s been a pleasure. How may I reach you when I have more progress to report?”

Dean pulled a small notebook from his inner coat pocket, scribbled an address and passed it to Castiel. “Thank you for the recommendation, Cas. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.” Cas stood, shook Dean’s hand, and left. Even before the door closed behind him, Dean had shifted over to question the young men more closely.

After returning to his office, Castiel worked on the translation for a little while before his meeting with Director Holloway. He was occasionally distracted by thoughts of Dean and the death he was investigating. Did Dean think the young man’s demise was somehow related to his investigation? If so, how?

He might never know, but he couldn’t deny he was curious. When it was time for his meeting, he put the book away in his desk drawer and headed downstairs.

Albert Holloway’s office was on the second floor of the Hieronymous Society Museum, in the corner. It was designed to impress, with beautiful wood paneling, an impressive desk, furniture upholstered with soft, supple leather dyed a lush burgundy. The Director himself was a gentleman in his early sixties, passionate about the Museum, and quite good at soliciting donations.

“Ah, Dr. Novak, right on time,” he said, sounding surprised. That was entirely fair, Castiel had to admit. He tended to get lost in whatever he was doing and lose track of the time. If it were not for the lunch with Dean he likely would have been late today as well, but there hadn’t been enough time after his return to truly fall into his studies so deeply that nothing else penetrated his awareness.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Castiel said.

“Come in, come in.”

Castiel stepped inside and seated himself in one of the chairs. It was far more comfortable than the old wooden chair in his own office.

The Director regarded Castiel for a moment before leaning forward over his desk. “You may have heard that we had the privilege of a visit from Mr. Richard Roman earlier this week. Are you familiar with the name?”

“Somewhat. Mrs. Crombie does keep me informed about local events. I understand that he’s moved to Havenport recently, purchased the Debensham estate and undertaken some renovations. I further understand that he comes from a wealthy family, though I’m unclear as to what industry they have made their fortune in.”

“Land, primarily. Coupled with investments in various stocks and bonds. Unimportant to the topic at hand, however. It seems that Mr. Roman has an interest in rare books and documents, particularly those that predate the invention of the printing press. It seems he has a notable private collection. Some of the works he owns have never been translated into English. He expressed an interest in having our expert examine some of his pieces and perhaps provide a translation. In exchange he intimated that he may be interested in making a sizable donation to the Museum, even so far as sponsoring a collection to carry his name. The Roman Collection of Rare Works.” The Director’s eyes took on a gleam of fervor. “Hadn’t you said something about some pieces potentially coming to the market in Scotland? We might be able to afford to send you there to evaluate their suitability for the Museum.”

Castiel tipped his head to the side thoughtfully. Honestly, he had little desire to return to Europe, though the opportunity to add to the Museum’s collection was one of the few events that might entice him to leave his home and travel again. “Yes, there are rumors that Sir Lionel Abernathy is considering parting with some of his collection.”

“Then I can count on you to do your best to impress Mr. Roman with the worthiness of the Museum when you meet with him on Friday.”

“Friday?” Castiel sat forward. “I’m meeting with him on Friday?”

“Yes. He has indicated that he should like you to visit on Friday at 1:00 p.m., sharp. At that time he’ll consult with you about several works in his collection, and if all goes well, he may allow us to borrow them for a short time while you translate them.”

Castiel wasn’t sure how he felt about this. Two commissions in the same week? That was unheard of. He’d been at the Museum for three years and had a total of twelve such commissions in the entirety of his tenure.

Regardless of his personal feelings on the matter, refusal was not an option. He’d be unlikely to refuse in any event. One did not turn ones back on this type of opportunity. Dean’s book was turning out to be something of a disappointment so far as his professional reputation was concerned; perhaps Mr. Roman’s collection would offer material more suitable for academic discourse.

“Very well, sir. I will be there.”


	2. Chapter 2

Three days of solid work on translating the book Dean had brought to him left Castiel feeling more and more bemused. The text was starting to come together, but it was ever more clear that this work was entirely unreliable from a historical perspective. The discussions of magic made it clear that either the author was delusional or had a vivid imagination. Perhaps it had some value as a work of fiction, though it wasn’t coherent or linear enough to make a good read, even when translated.

At the end of the workday, he took out the piece of paper that Dean had left his contact information written on.

Castiel could wait for Dean to come to him. Or he could seek him out, ask for some answers.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs leading away from the museum. Left, towards home, or right, towards the boarding house where Dean was staying?

He turned right.

As luck would have it, Dean was sitting in the common room with a pint of frothy ale when Castiel entered. The room was smoky, making Castiel’s eyes water, and forcing a cough from his throat. He set his jaw and headed towards Dean’s table, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him.

“Ah, Cas,” Dean said, his eyes crinkling in pleasure. “It’s good to see you. Have you finished the translation?”

“Finished? No. But I am far enough that I have questions.”

Dean considered, then nodded. “Let’s take this somewhere more private. I have a room upstairs.”

“Why is privacy necessary?”

“That would be part of what we discuss privately. Come on, Cas… trust me this far, please?”

“Fine. We’ll go up to your room.”

The room was small, prosaic – a typical boarding house room. Castiel had stayed in one similar to this when he’d first accepted the position at the museum, until he’d purchased his cottage. Dean pulled out the simple chair from the desk, turning it towards the bed. He sat on the edge of the bed himself.

“So. You have questions.”

“I have very many questions, yes. This book… I question its authenticity. Where did you get it?”

“Well. Interesting story, that.” He ran his hand through his hair. “It was given to me by a young man who thought it was important. He wasn’t able to read it, either.”

“I fear this young man was entirely mistaken. What I have translated so far is pure nonsense. Folderol. If you paid money for it, you were taken for a fool.”

“What type of nonsense?”

“You recall how I told you it mentioned many figures purported to be magicians? Figures who history cannot confirm ever existed? It goes on from there, intermingling notes on those ‘sorcerers’ with experiments in working magic themselves,” Castiel informed him, giving him a flat look. “They even claim some success, recording these spells as though they work. Unless it was intended as a work of fiction, it’s pure garbage. There is no such thing as magic, everyone knows that.”

Dean just looked up at him through those ridiculously long gold-tipped lashes. He didn’t say a word.

“Are you mad?” Castiel exclaimed. “You cannot possibly believe in magic. It is the stuff of fairytales and the beliefs of uneducated people. We know better now than we did in the dark ages. There is no such thing as magic. There is science, and there is art. But legends are just that… legends, with phenomena that can be explained through logic and science.”

“I’ve seen things, Cas. Things that science and reason can’t explain.”

“Then you’ve missed crucial pieces of information.” Castiel stood up, paced back and forth in the tiny amount of space available in the room. This entire conversation was an affront to his sensibilities – and the idea that Dean could possibly believe in this? That disturbed and disappointed him. “I had not taken you for the fanciful sort.”

Dean snorted. “That’s because I’m not. I’m an investigator. A criminal investigator, privately employed.”

“And what crimes are you investigating in Havenport?”

Dean went still. “I can’t tell you that, not right now. It’s premature, not to mention dangerous.”

“You think this, this book of spells will help you in your investigation?”

“It might. The person I got it from believed it was vitally important. He paid for his belief. Look… I don’t know a lot about how translations work. Is it important to take it all in sequence? Could you, I don’t know, do just enough on each section to get a sense what it’s about, then bring that to me and I’ll tell you what to prioritize? I’ll double the payment. Time is important. I don’t have months.” He tapped his fingers on his thigh. “I may not even have weeks.”

Castiel frowned. “Perhaps. Do you need it written down? It would be faster to read you some excerpts and work that way. If you were to come to my home tomorrow evening we could try that approach.”

Dean nodded. “That’s a great idea, Cas. Give me your address, and I’ll be there around six.”

Friday afternoon found Castiel being driven through the gates to the mansion recently acquired by Mr. Roman, then escorted inside to a beautifully appointed private library. The walls were covered with mahogany bookshelves intricately carved with scrollwork and laden with books. There were comfortable overstuffed chairs, and tables holding artwork.

Mr. Roman himself sat behind an immense stately desk. “Good afternoon, Dr. Novak. Thank you for joining me.” He stood up to shake Castiel’s hand. His grip was firm, his hands pale and smooth save for a rough patch along the side of his ring finger.

“Mr. Roman. Thank you for the invitation.” Castiel felt predictably awkward. Despite growing up in a privileged family, he’d never truly been comfortable around men who wielded their wealth and influence like a weapon.

“I haven’t been here in Havenport for long, but this library has been my priority. The rest of the house isn’t as well-appointed. Given your expertise, however, I doubt your interest lies elsewhere.”

“This is certainly a beautiful collection.” Whether or not it held any academic interest was yet to be determined, though even a quick perusal of the library made Castiel’s heart rate quicken. He could tell at a glance that most of the books were newer and of no particular value, but he could also tell that some of them held potential.

“Thank you. Our time together is limited, so shall we move right along to the primary attraction?” He turned towards a locked cabinet behind his desk, inserted a key to open the door. Pulling on a pair of white gloves, he then removed a small selection of old books and set them on the desk surface, beside an unusual piece of sculptural art.

The library wasn’t well lit, but somehow the sliver of light coming through the gap between rich burgundy velvet draperies managed to catch the egg-shaped crystal in the sculpture so that it glowed with a strange green light. There were inclusions inside the crystal that made it seem to sparkle and shift, casting patterns of iridescent light across the covers of the books.

“This is an unusual sculpture,” Castiel observed. “I don’t recognize the style. Is it European?”

Roman lightly touched the intertwining vines that wrapped the central crystal and held it in place. “Yes, from Eastern Europe, during the early Christian age. It was created near Byzantium in the third century, I’ve been told.”

Castiel frowned slightly in thought. The style didn’t seem particularly Byzantine to him, but then the fine arts weren’t his area of expertise.

He quickly forgot about the sculpture, however, when Roman brought out a particularly well-preserved volume of Greek poetry. He donned his own protective gloves. “May I?” he asked.

Roman handed the book across to him. Castiel studied the binding, the paper, and the ink. “This is beautiful,” he said. “It’s hard to be certain without further analysis, but at first glance it appears to date to the medieval period. To find Greek poetry written in the original Greek from that period is quite impressive.”

“It’s one of my prized possessions,” Roman said. “I also have some scraps of works on parchment and papyrus, originally recorded in scrolls rather than book form. Some of them I believe to date to the time of the Egyptian Pharaohs. But age isn’t the only indication of value, as you’re undoubtedly aware.” He pulled open a drawer in the cabinet and removed another book, this one with a binding of worn green leather tooled and gilded.

Castiel looked at it. “How very fascinating. This is written in Enochian. I’ve rarely seen any works in this language, and yet somehow this is the second I’ve encountered this month.”

Roman looked up at that, his gaze sharply focused on Castiel before he looked down again. “Indeed?” he said. “That is quite the coincidence. Where else have you seen one? Perhaps I shall wish to inquire of its owner to see if they are interested in selling.”

Castiel hummed softly, absently, as he skimmed through the book. It appeared to be a history of some kind, though he couldn’t tell immediately of whom. “I don’t think they would be, but I can make an inquiry on your behalf.”

“What sort of book is it?”

There was a studied indifference to Roman’s tone. Castiel looked up. “Oh… nothing particularly noteworthy,” he said. “A personal memoir. My personal opinion is that writing it in Enochian was a pretentious choice.” He shrugged. “May I see the Assyrian papyrus?”

Roman looked at him for a long moment, then turned. “Yes, of course.”

After a pleasant two hours spent discussing the highlights of Roman’s personal collection, with Castiel coveting the opportunity to examine some of the books he could see but that weren’t presented to him, he eventually left again. The butler – of course he had a butler – showed him outside again to the waiting carriage. Before he could step inside, however, movement at the street caught his eye.

Dean? Could that be Dean Winchester, passing by the front gates? The man looked up and caught Castiel’s gaze. Yes, yes, that was absolutely Dean. What was he doing here?

Castiel hesitated, looked at the carriage driver, then back to the street. He considered passing on the ride back to the museum and walking. It was only two miles or so, definitely a reasonable walking distance.

“Sir?” the carriage driver questioned.

When Castiel looked away, Dean was no longer there. Shaking his head, he stepped up into the carriage and settled down. He would have the opportunity to question him that evening. They already had plans for dinner, after all.

Castiel had purchased a fish on his way home from the Museum – a small cod – and had started to prepare some root vegetables to serve alongside the fish. He wasn’t particularly good at cooking, but necessity (and Mrs. Crombie) had taught him a handful of simple meals so that he could occasionally dine at home. He’d purchased some bread, as well, and he still had some butter in the crock. That along with a bottle of wine ought to do for his meal with Dean.

He had the vegetables cooking away in the kettle when Dean knocked at his door. He wiped his hands clean on a towel as he went to the entrance. “Welcome, Dean. Please come in. Did you have any difficulty finding the house?”

“No, not at all. Your directions were clear.” He stepped inside after wiping his shoes on the mat just outside the door. “Gotta say, this house isn’t what I was expecting.”

“Oh?”

He grinned. “Nope. Don’t know exactly what I _was_ expecting. Maybe something a little more… brick. And in the city.” He looked around, taking in details of the cozy front room. “I like it.”

“Thank you. It isn’t large, but it suits my needs.” He took Dean’s outer coat and hung it on a hook beside the door. “I hope you like cod. As you might imagine, seafood is plentiful here in Havenport.”

“Not too much I won’t eat.”

“Please. Have a seat while I fry it up. I didn’t want to start it until I knew you were here. It’s better hot.”

Dean nodded and made himself comfortable, watching Castiel as he floured the cod fillets, melted some butter in his cast iron skillet, and carefully laid the fish to fry.

“Why were you at Richard Roman’s estate?” he asked, openly curious.

Castiel turned to look at him briefly before returning his attention to the cod. “He is apparently a collector of ancient and rare books and scrolls. He has expressed interest in patronizing the Museum. The Director asked me to meet with him. It was an interesting afternoon. He has some amazing pieces in his collection. We discussed the possibility of my translating some of them for him, and having the opportunity to study them. I must admit I was surprised to see you there.”

“How much do you know about Roman?” Dean asked. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach and stretching one leg out.

Castiel stifled a momentary pang of envy over how comfortable Dean was in his skin. He wasn’t sure he was ever as relaxed as Dean was. Though, to be fair, at the moment that easy grace seemed forced rather than natural. “I know enough. He’s only recently arrived in Havenport, making some investments in local businesses. He has a large personal fortune, and a collection of rare books that would make an admirable addition to this museum.”

“He happen to have anything in Enochian that he showed you?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, though I didn’t have long to study it.” Castiel admitted, feeling mildly disgruntled. He knew many ancient languages, but he was particularly fascinated by Enochian, perhaps because of its very rarity, as well as the scholarly debates about its origins. Unlike most languages, it wasn’t clearly devolved from a particular geographic region, and its linguistic roots were hotly debated in academic circles. “The texts we examined were in other languages – Greek, Latin, some Assyrian.” He tipped his head to the side. “You’ve asked me why I was at the Roman estate, but why were _you_ there?”

“Private Investigator. Means I have an abundance of curiosity, checking out the new guy in town, seeing what’s up. The usual.”

“The usual. I wouldn’t know what ‘the usual’ is. Not for a private investigator. How did you come by your profession?”

“Following in my father’s footsteps. What about you? How did you get interested in languages, and books?”

This was his own fault, opening the door to more personal topics. He shrugged one shoulder. “When I was at university, I took a course in languages, discovered I had an aptitude for it. And then I discovered the library at Oxford.” He’d been a shy, introverted American boy in a prestigious British school. The loneliness and homesickness never went away, until he discovered he could lose himself with the books.

“And the rest is history? You even have room for more books if Roman donates some?”

“Absolutely. You’ve only seen my office, not the museum archives. There is plenty of room. Even if there wasn’t, we would sell some of the less valuable works to make room for more valuable ones. Some works I would very much like to acquire are rumored to be made available this summer. The museum doesn’t currently have enough funds to make a serious offer for them, and even if we did getting the money allocated to the Ancient Texts collection would be a challenge. But if we received a donation specifically earmarked for the collection…” He suddenly stopped, feeling himself flush. “My apologies. I did not intend to let my enthusiasm get away from me.”

“Oh please. Enthuse away. It’s kind of charming.” Dean grinned at him. He asked a few more questions about the archives Castiel was responsible for until the fish was done cooking and Castiel served their meal. He washed his hands before sitting down across the small table from Dean.

Suddenly his cottage felt much smaller and more intimate than it ever had before. Dean had a presence about him that was impossible to ignore. Castiel didn’t want to be aware of Dean the way he was. Until meeting Dean, he’d thought that Alfie was an anomaly. He hadn’t been attracted to anyone, not really, after that youthful romance ended with his voyage across the Atlantic, and Alfie’s subsequent death. He’d noticed that some people were aesthetically pleasing, of course. But that admiration had been strictly intellectual, like looking at a piece of art and finding it beautiful. For all its beauty, it was still an object.

Dean, however… Dean fascinated him. He didn’t think he was imagining a connection between the two of them, the seeds of a friendship. At least he hoped he wasn’t imagining it. Dean might be this warm and inviting with anyone as a tool of his profession. That was certainly grounds to be cautious and not to get invested. Besides, Dean did not live in Havenport. When his case was finished, he would be leaving again.

Best to keep things strictly professional, at least to the extent that Dean allowed it.

After the meal, Castiel cleaned up before fetching the book and sitting down with it near the oil lamp. He started to read through the book, reading half a page here and there while Dean took notes, trying to get the gist of the contents.

“That one,” Dean said, holding up a hand to pause Castiel’s reading. “The part about Malak.”

Castiel lifted a brow. “Really, Dean? You want to know more about a probably fictitious 12th century ‘sorcerer’?”

“He may not be as well-known as Merlin, but I’ve heard the name before. What does it say about him?”

“I’ll provide you with a complete translation when I can, but…” He skimmed over the text. “It’s discussing legends about Malak, about his reputation as a sorcerer who could create and control subhuman creatures, using them to impose his will upon others. The author claims that he was plotting to subvert entire empires and rule the world when he was trapped by a group of opposing sorcerers, who were individually less powerful than he but as a group were able to surprise him and entrap his spirit in a sort of stasis.”

It was all quite ridiculous, but entertaining in its own fashion. “There are even some illustrations.” He tapped the sketch in the middle of a page.

Dean leaned over to look at it. “Huh. Interesting. Looks sort of like a rock crystal, wouldn’t you say? Kind of like some of those reliquaries some Catholic churches have. You ever see any of those while you were in Europe?”

“Yes. They’re quite fascinating. And I suppose there are some similarities, yes. I’ve seen objects similar to this before. I’m not entirely sure where, but it looks familiar enough for me to believe I’ve seen something similar.”

“If you think of the specific instance, let me know, hm?”

“Very well.”

They continued racing through the book, Castiel making notes of the parts that Dean expressed interest in.

“Oh shit, it got late,” Dean suddenly exclaimed, looking at his watch. “I really should be heading back to my place.”

Castiel looked at his own watch. “Oh. Yes, it did get late. It’s after midnight. My apologies.”

“Hey, no need for apologies.” He smiled. “My own fault, you know? I really should be heading out, though. Thank you, this has been… educational.”

“You really think some of this information will be useful to you?”

“Not quite sure how, yet, but I hope so. Sometimes the strangest things end up being the key to a case, you know?” He stood up and went to get his coat, shrugging into it.

Castiel accompanied him to the door, and walked outside with him. Though it was late, the sky towards the north was, once more, glowing with a strange yellow-green color.

Dean stopped and stared. “That’s weird.”

Castiel shrugged. “I thought it unusual at first as well, but it’s happened fairly frequently over the last few months. I asked one of my colleagues at the museum, and he is of the opinion that it’s related to the phosphorescent lichen that grow in the sea caves along the coast.”

“Really.”

“That’s what I was told.”

“Huh.” Dean studied the horizon for a moment longer, then turned away. “I’ll see you again soon, Cas. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. I’ve found the evening surprisingly enjoyable.”

Dean grinned. “Me too. We should do it again sometime. Maybe without the business part.”

Castiel caught his breath at that, surprised by the flush of pleasure Dean’s words brought. “Perhaps so. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Monday morning, Castiel carefully packed the book back into his satchel before heading back to his office at the museum. He was lost in thought as he travelled the short distance between his home and the museum. He’d walked this path hundreds if not thousands of times before; he’d often made it back and forth without consciously recalling a single step or turn.

When he reached the museum and headed for the stairs, Mrs. Crombie came towards him, distraught. “Dr. Novak. Oh my dear, oh my dear, I am so very sorry.” She placed a hand on his lapel, withdrew it quickly as though burned. “I don’t know who or why, just… oh my dear.”

Her alarm sparked his own. “Mrs. Crombie, do calm down. What happened?”

She glanced up the stairs, then back to him, biting her lower lip.

Castiel looked up, looked back to Mrs. Crombie, then back up the wooden staircase. It led up to the private levels, including his office.

His office.

Making an involuntary sound of dismay, he headed up the steps two at a time, heart thundering.

The door to his office was hanging crooked on the hinges. Beyond, his precious books lay here and there, scattered on the floor, on the desk, on his chair. The spines of some were broken, the pages of others ripped and torn.

He felt violated, outraged. His books! How could anyone do such a thing? Why would they do such a thing? It made no sense. Hot, furious tears stung his eyes, made the back of his throat ache. He wouldn’t release them, couldn’t release them. He clenched his fists, his short nails digging into the meat of his palms as he fought to control the wild surge of emotion.

“Dr. Novak?” Mrs. Crombie timidly spoke behind him, a tentative hand brushing against the wool of his coat.

He shook his head, unable to form words quite yet.

She sighed, then stepped away again, her skirts rustling with the movement.

He didn’t know how long he stood there before his muscles unlocked enough to allow movement and his mind retreated from the white haze of anger and sorrow. He was barely aware of the many discussions with police, museum security staff, and his colleagues. He repeated the same information over and over again. No, he didn’t know what happened. No, he had no idea who could have done such a thing. No, he didn’t know yet if anything was missing. Certainly it was nothing obvious at first glance, and everything was such a mess that he wouldn’t know for certain until he’d cleaned up – and perhaps not even then. He didn’t have an inventory written down of every book or paper that had been present at his office.

More than everything else, he was overwhelmed by feeling heartsick.

Who would do such a thing? Why?


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel methodically worked his way through cleaning up. Mrs. Crombie had offered to help, but he rejected the offer. He didn’t want anyone else handling his books or trying to evaluate the damage.

He was so lost in the work that he didn’t hear the knock on the door, or even notice it opening wider, so he was startled when someone spoke, far too close.

“Holy hells, what happened here?”

Castiel jerked his head up, eyes wide in startlement.

Dean stood in the doorway, looking around the room.

Castiel cleared his throat, putting on an expression of disgruntlement. “I should think that would be rather self-evident.”

“Breaking and entering, destruction of property.” He stepped further in, carefully avoiding stepping on anything. After quickly looking around he turned back towards Castiel, stepping close and placing his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing. “Is anything missing?”

Castiel couldn’t answer right away. He’d been holding himself together all this time, but somehow a simple touch of sympathy threatened to destroy his fragile control. He shivered, then mentally shook himself. Not yet. He couldn’t allow himself to show weakness or be visibly distraught. Not yet.

“Not that I’ve been able to determine, but I haven’t finished cleaning. Obviously.”

“Have you reported this to the police?”

“I’ve spent the entire morning speaking with police, Museum security, and various colleagues. The police said they’ll look into it.” Castiel had his doubts that they’d find anything. Indeed, he had his doubts about how much effort they would put into the investigation. Why should they care about some old books, when they had bigger things to look into, such as the murder of that young man by the docks?

“Perhaps I can offer my assistance as well.”

Castiel looked at him. Ah yes, he was a private investigator, so he did have some relevant experience. Then his gaze narrowed. “You said the book you asked me to translate was related to an investigation you’re working on. Is this the result of your bringing that book to me?”

Dean briefly pursed his lips. He had full lips, beautifully bow-shaped, with a surprisingly delicate pink color. Castiel resolutely pushed that observation aside. It was irrelevant, and the sort of thing he’d decided long ago he wouldn’t place any importance upon.

Alfie had also had a sweetly plump lower lip.

Castiel scowled, shoving that memory back into the hidden shadows of his mind, where it belonged.

“It’s possible. Damn. I didn’t expect that.” He looked around, shoulders tensing, his fingers twitching until he shoved his hands into his pockets. “I am so sorry if that’s the case. I never intended _this_.”

“Yes, well, your intentions appear to be entirely irrelevant, don’t they.”

“Guess so.” He caught that damned lower lip between his teeth.

Castiel sighed. “They don’t have it.”

“What?”

“Your book.” Castiel waved his hand around the ruination of his office, his haven. “I hadn’t returned here since we spoke on Friday night. It wasn’t here, ergo, they don’t have it.”

“Oh. Thank God. And thank you.” He reached out to draw a fingertip along the edge of Castiel’s desk. “Is the book still at your home?”

“No. It’s in my satchel.”

“Good.” Dean tapped his fingers on the desk, clearly considering certain options before sharply nodding and squaring his shoulders. “Cas. I swear to you I never thought this would happen, or I would have at least warned you before asking you to translate. But it’s my considered opinion that those searching for this book are the same people who murdered young Mr. Tran, and others before him. Now that you have it, you are in danger. Since I brought this on you, it’s my duty to make sure you don’t come to any harm because of me.”

“There are others who believe this insanity? That your book truly holds the secrets of magic?” Castiel couldn’t hold back the derision in his tone. Maybe, just maybe, he wanted it to be true. Wanted magic to exist, wanted to be able to believe in something wondrous that flaunted the laws of physics. But like most of his more fanciful musings, he had to push that aside. Bury it deep.

“I will explain more to you, but not here. Somewhere with greater privacy. I can help you return this office to more order.”

Castiel looked around and sighed. “No. It’s… well. It will take a great deal of time to restore the books to their proper places, and more importantly, to assess how much damage has been done to them, and how much they might be repaired. Or what can’t be repaired.”

“I know it distresses you to leave the office like this, but there may be clues about who did this. Cleaning it up immediately might disturb the evidence. You should just lock it up for now, and I’ll ask around, see what I can learn. But first, we should go back to your cottage, make sure whoever did this hasn’t headed there now that you’ve left for work.”

Castiel turned towards him at that, alarm in his eyes. “You think they would?”

“If they didn’t find what they were looking for? Yes. Yes, I do. People who would murder others aren’t going to have any qualms about breaking and entering.” He looked meaningfully around the office.

Castiel took a moment to calm himself. He liked calm and order. The idea of someone ransacking his home, his sanctuary… “Very well. Let’s return to my home. I’ll tell Mrs. Crombie I’m leaving for the day.”

After locking up his office and stopping by to inform Mrs. Crombie of his departure and ask her not to let anyone into the office without notifying him, Castiel left the premises of the Hieronymous Society Museum with Dean Winchester at his side.

They didn’t speak during the walk to the seaside cottage. But when they arrived, Dean paused. “Looks different by daylight,” he commented. “It’s got a certain charm to it. Do you garden, in the summer months?” He ran a hand over the wooden flowerbox mounted under the front window. The box was painted blue with yellow-centered white daisies painted along the upper edge.

“I attempt to. I… learned a bit about gardening, as a youth in Boston. Conditions here, with the wind off the ocean, can be difficult. Still, I’ve coaxed some plants to grow.”

Dean nodded, and took a moment to walk around the cottage, studying the door hinges, the windows, making sure that nothing looked out of the ordinary. “Looks like no one’s been here.”

“That’s a relief.” Castiel unlocked the front door and stepped inside. He set his satchel down on the catch-all table just inside the door, dropped his keys in the bowl there. “Welcome to my humble abode,” he said, mouth twisted wryly. He looked around the front room with a different perspective, wondering what Dean saw, what he thought. When he’d come by on Friday evening, all Castiel had been thinking about was the book and the translation. He hadn’t devoted any thought to what Dean might think of his home.

There were two generously sized windows at the front of his space, overlooking the street. Lace curtains hung over them, the heavier draperies pulled back on the sides. Abruptly he noticed that the curtains were rather dusty. Perhaps he should consider washing them. His desk was placed before the window, piled high with books and papers, pen and ink in one corner. His favorite chair was in the opposite corner, a small table beside it. The kitchen was small.

He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on one of the hooks beside the door and waited to do the same for Dean.

He handed his coat over and wandered over to take a look at the books. “Have you been keeping your written-out translations with the book?”

“Yes. They’re in the satchel.”

Perhaps encouraging Dean to take off his coat had been an error. The waistcoat he wore fit him quite well, cut in a way to accentuate the breadth of his shoulders and the strength of his arms. Castiel cleared his throat. “Would you care for something to drink? I don’t keep much here, but there is water, and I think I have some beer still.” He headed towards the kitchen, feeling uncomfortable in his own home.

“The sort of conversation we need to have is the sort that could use some beer. Nothing stronger? Whiskey?”

“Not here, no. My apologies.” He preferred not to keep hard liquor here, not when he was usually alone. If he wanted a drink of something stronger than beer, he would go to a tavern. He pulled the jug out from the lower cupboard, opened it and poured two mugs. He considered a moment, then cut two thick slices of bread and a wedge of cheese to go along with it.

Once they were both seated and had taken a first drink of the beer, Castiel looked at Dean, silently encouraging him to begin.

Dean took a sip of beer, then another, licking the foam from his lips afterwards. “Do you recall hearing about Mr. Tran? Word came that first day we had lunch together.”

Castiel nodded. “The young man who was murdered. Of course I recall that. Murder is rare in Havenport. People have been talking about it quite a bit. It seems he was new to the area.”

“He worked for Richard Roman. He approached me with concerns that he had. We were never given the chance to delve into the specifics of his concerns, though it amounted to Roman being up to something nefarious. The book I brought to you for translation, Mr. Tran smuggled it out of Roman’s collection and delivered it to me.” Dean looked troubled and tinged with sorrow for the young man’s life.

“Oh my dear God.” Castiel’s eyes widened, his heart rate escalating as something clicked in his mind. “When I met with Mr. Roman, he briefly showed me a book written in Enochian. I commented on how unusual it was to have seen two Enochian books in such close succession. Do you… do you suppose he knew I was referring to the book you brought to me? And that’s why my office was ransacked?”

Dean closed his eyes briefly. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath. “That’s not only possible, it’s highly likely. God, Cas, I’m sorry. I should have warned you about him, but…”

Castiel swallowed hard, shook his head. “But you had no reason to, really. No reason to trust me enough to share your suspicions with me, no reason to believe I wouldn’t tell him anything you had told me in hopes of winning more favor with him and obtaining the donation he has dangled.”

Dean nodded unhappily. “As an investigator, you’re trained never to tell what you know. You need to listen to what people say, figure out who knows what, try and get corroborating evidence without prompting it. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel horrible about it right now.”

“Mr. Roman and I are not close personal friends. We may have a shared interest in old books… though with what you’re telling me right now, the nature of our interest is unlikely to be the same. Why do you think Roman is involved?”

“There are far too many coincidences around Mr. Roman for them to be considered coincidences anymore. The reason I was at his residence was I’m trying to find out what he is up to. I need to find out what all he is guilty of.”

“You’re presuming guilt.” Castiel sliced a bit of cheese from the wedge to give himself something to do with his hands. “Did you come to Havenport because of him? You followed him here from… wherever you were before? Kansas, did you say?” He knew Roman had come here from somewhere in the Midwest. Kansas was as likely as anywhere else. He hadn’t paid particular attention, because he didn’t see the information as relevant in any way.

“I am presuming guilt,” Dean admitted. “There isn’t enough evidence yet to pin anything in particular on him, yet my instincts scream at me he is responsible for many evils including and beyond the death of Mr. Tran.”

Even now Castiel thought there were things that Dean wasn’t telling him. He wasn’t sure whether or not to push. He valued personal privacy a great deal, and yet Dean had pulled him into this, whatever it was.

“Whatever it is that he’s involved in, you think that magic is a part of it,” he slowly said. “Especially since Mr. Tran gave you this book. Are you thinking that you’ll work one of these spells? Most of them seem relatively innocuous, so far.”

“Work one of these myself? No, that wasn’t my intent.” He toyed with a piece of paper. “Kevin – Mr. Tran – mentioned Malak. Supposedly Roman is near obsessed with his history and the legends surrounding his entrapment. He believes that a part of Malak is still… not exactly alive, but not dead, either. Contained. And under the right circumstances, he could be brought back.”

“Brought back? What does that mean?”

“No clues from your readings?” Dean pushed back.

Castiel frowned. “There is… in the section about Malak, there are some discussions about how he was trapped. The translation is difficult. I’m not convinced that the author didn’t make up some of the symbols himself, for lack of more precise options. I could interpret them more than one way, but it seems to imply that his spirit, his soul, was forced into a crystal of some sort. Those who confronted him were not powerful enough to destroy him, but they could capture him.”

“If he was captured, then he could one day escape. Or be released. Cas, for the sake of argument, put aside your resistance to the idea that magic could be real. Assume, just for now, that what you’ve been reading is a true accounting of an eyewitness to history, rather than flights of fancy.”

Once upon a time, Castiel had been enamored of fairy tales and the stories of the fantastic, back when his mother had still been alive and would settle him beside her and read those stories aloud to him. He’d dreamed of a world of wonder and beauty. He’d even been convinced, until he was old enough to know better (hurt enough to become disillusioned), that she’d created visions of pretty flowers and fantastical birds to sing him to sleep.

“For the sake of argument, let’s say there is something more than fantasy to this book of spells,” he agreed. He pushed the pile of his translation across to Dean after quickly locating some of the relevant sections. “There seem to be different types of spell. The author delves into spells of healing, weather working, calling fire and other types of energy, and summonings. That last category makes me uncomfortable. Calling forth spiritual animals for various purposes seems like it could easily turn to malicious intent.”

“Even if it doesn’t start that way, summoning can be a risky proposition. Not properly containing what you’ve summoned, getting a word wrong and summoning something different than intended… lots of ways for it to go sideways.”

“You seem like you’re speaking from experience,” Castiel cautiously commented.

“As far as cleaning up the mess others made, yes. I’ve never performed such a ritual myself.” He bit his lower lip as he read through Cas’ notes.

The man was unfairly attractive, particularly focused like this. He looked entirely at home in Castiel’s space. He had untapped depths, certainly. “If you’re a private investigator, that implies that someone is paying you for your work. Who hired you for this job?”

“This job?” Dean glanced up at that. “No one. Roman has a lot of wealth and influence, no one was willing to investigate him. No one but me.”

“Why?” On the surface it was a simple question, but Castiel suspected the answer wasn’t simple at all. “Obviously you don’t owe me any answers, but… I would like to know. If you are willing to tell me.”

Dean looked away and scratched the back of his neck. “Why.” He turned to once again look Cas in the eye. An expression of sadness crossed his face, lingered in his beautiful eyes and the way his mouth turned down at the corners. Castiel wanted to comfort him – and that thought frightened him. He didn’t want emotional attachments, particularly not to beautiful men who were only in town for a short time.

“I didn’t always work alone. I had a partner. Benny. He was a good friend, and we worked well together. Then he was killed.”

Castiel’s chest suddenly felt tight. The feeling and words threatened to bring old wounds of his own to the surface, but this wasn’t the time. This was Dean’s story, not his. “And you suspect Mr. Roman was somehow involved?”

“Very strongly suspect, yes. I don’t yet know what his purpose is, what he is up to. I am close, though. I can feel that I am close to breaking this open. Wealth does not give him the right to do whatever he wishes to whomever he wishes.”

That struck uncomfortably close to home. Castiel stood up and walked to the window, looking out sightlessly over the ocean. _Wealth does not give him the right to do whatever he wishes to whomever he wishes._ Those words could apply as easily to Castiel’s father as to Mr. Richard Roman. Charles Novak absolutely believed that wealth justified whatever he wanted, whether that be sending his second son overseas to school to get him away from ‘associating with unsuitable social inferiors’, or… or…

He still couldn’t frame his long-held suspicions into words. The idea that his own father might have _arranged_ Alfie’s accident was unthinkable. Horrifying. He didn’t want to believe it, but he’d never been able to completely eradicate the idea.

“What is going through your mind right now?” Dean asked, quietly. Respectfully. “Cas. Will you tell me?”

He shook his head to clear it, not as a negative. “I… it resonated with me, that’s all. My family has a certain amount of wealth.”

This cottage would never give any indication of familial wealth. He’d never describe it as anything other than snug and cozy, exceedingly modest, and slightly shabby. If his father were to ever step foot in these rooms, he would be utterly horrified.

Not that there was much chance of that ever happening.

Dean took another look around. “Your family has. You are no longer a beneficiary of that wealth?”

“I haven’t been for a very long time. When I was young, I made the mistake of forming a friendship with a boy who worked with the gardener. A very close friendship.” More than a friendship, really. There had been soft, shy, tentative kisses, and lying under trees in the summer holding hands. “My father thought it most unsuitable to be so close to someone who worked for us, and so he sent me away to England.”

“A wealthy man who thought his wealth gave him a right to do whatever he wished,” Dean surmised. He looked at Castiel thoughtfully. “Where is your friend now?”

Cas had to close his eyes tightly against the sting of tears. It had been so long. He should be over the pain. “He… had an accident, after I left. Before I even reached England. A carriage, in the narrow streets. They said the horses spooked, and Alfie was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He shrugged. “A most unfortunate accident.”

Dean stood to come stand near to Cas. Not too close, not invading his space. But near. Supportive.

“You do not believe it was an accident.”

Cas turned to face Dean. “I don’t know, honestly. By the time I was home again it had been years. I hope it was, because the alternative doesn’t bear thinking about. He was a wonderful person, Alfie. Sweet, intelligent, kind. He didn’t deserve what happened to him. But we were talking about you, not me. And Richard Roman.”

Dean studied his face a moment, then nodded in agreement to let the topic go for the moment. “Very well. What can you tell me of what you saw when you were inside his home? Anything of note, anything that stood out?”

“Not really, no. The library was well-appointed considering he’s not been here long. An extensive collection, though I only spent time with a few pieces. I didn’t see much of the rest of the estate. I was escorted directly to the library.”

“Did you get a chance to read any of the books?”

“Parts of them. There wasn’t anything even remotely magical about them. They were histories, books of poetry. Ordinary classics, first editions, rare books. Beautiful, but not occult in nature.”

“The man has not gotten as far as he has by revealing himself too soon. He is likely still vetting you. Or, I do not know what his purpose is here, not yet, nor how you tie into it.”

“This is all a great deal to take in,” Castiel said, running his hand through his hair. It was also difficult to turn off his awareness of Dean in his home. Having him there should feel awkward, uncomfortable, and yet it somehow didn’t.

“Yes, it is,” Dean agreed. “Have you considered this, though? What do you have to lose by allowing the possibility that magic is real, and poses a threat in the wrong hands? Privately, just between you and me? I wouldn’t go announcing it to your colleagues and besmirching your professional reputation.”

That had been his primary objection. If anyone found out, he would become a laughingstock. But in the context of current events, he couldn’t see that it would do any harm to follow the theory to any conclusions it might drive.

Dean clearly saw his capitulation. A fond smile crossed his lips, and he relaxed back into his chair. “Tell me this. Based on what you’ve read, does magic seem to be a skill that only some possess? Or could anyone do it, with the right knowledge?”

“It seems to be based on speaking, or thinking, the right phrases in the right language, reinforced by holding a belief that it will work.”

Dean nodded. “That tracks with other information I’ve gained.” He tapped his fingers on his knee, then shrugged. “Well. I think at this point we’re best served by eating some dinner. Did you ever even get any lunch?”

“No, between the wreckage of my office and then coming back with you…”

“That’s what I thought. Come on. Let’s go grab something. Maybe at the Rusty Anchor again? The food there was good.”

Castiel thought about what food he had here at home, and realized there wasn’t much. On top of that, he really wasn’t enamored of the idea of cooking. He nodded. “Very well.”

“After you.” Dean gestured towards the door, then seemed to recall he was in Castiel’s home, and after giving him a sheepish glance, headed towards the door himself.

Castiel started to slide his arms into his winter coat, then abruptly froze. “If you’re correct, and someone is looking for this book, I shouldn’t leave it unattended. Perhaps I shouldn’t even leave the cottage unattended.” His home might not be particularly noteworthy, but it was _his_ , and he would be most unhappy if it met the same fate as his office. Thinking of his office still made his stomach turn.

“Good point.” Dean considered for a moment. “You know anyone you can ask to watch the place for you?”

The only person he could really think of was Mrs. Crombie, and he would never place her in any sort of danger. “Not really.”

“Well. You can hardly hole up in here permanently. Even if you did, you’d just end up putting yourself at risk. If they want in, eventually they’ll give up waiting for you to leave. For now, though, just bring the book with us?”

“Yes, that works.”

By unspoken agreement they didn’t talk about anything related to magic or Enochian or Dick Roman during their meal. Instead Dean told him about some of the cases he’d worked in his past, and about his younger brother Sam, still living in Kansas, practicing the law, happily married with two young children. In return Castiel shared one or two stories from Oxford, tales that Dean seemed to genuinely enjoy.

When they’d finished, they decided to head back to Castiel’s home for further research. Castiel shivered when he stepped outside again. The wind had picked up from the harbor. Perhaps he should have taken his favorite blue wool scarf. Clouds had rolled in as well, so it was dark despite the nearness of the full moon.

Dean moved to walk slightly ahead of Cas, eyes scanning the street as they moved along. There were many dark corners, a few alleys. Castiel didn’t usually pay much attention to them, since he walked this direction daily. Familiarity caused inattention, in his case. Far too often he paid much more attention to mentally teasing apart translations than to where he placed his feet. Translating wasn’t an exact science, after all, particularly with dead languages. People used idioms that didn’t make sense on a superficial level, so sometimes a literal translation wasn’t the most accurate one. Even a work as popular and well-known as the Bible had multiple translations, where some particular choices could notably change the meaning.

He walked past an alley. A whisper of rasping sound came from the darkness. Something heavy launched itself onto Castiel’s back, bearing him to the ground. Hot, foul breath heated the back of his neck, curling around to choke him with an acrid sulfuric smell. It burned as he inhaled. Castiel twisted his head. He caught a fleeting glimpse of long, gnarled fingers gripping his shoulders, eyes that glowed with an unholy light, and a slash of a mouth with crooked, rotting teeth.

A snick of metal sounded, and a blade flashed through the air. The creature’s head plopped to the ground and rolled away. Dean connected his boot to its ribs, pushing it off of Cas, and then dropped to his knees in the street beside him. “Cas! Are you all right?” He anxiously examined Castiel’s neck and face for injuries, his fingers deceptively gentle as he ghosted them over his skin.

Castiel’s eyes went very wide and round in the darkness. Everything had happened so quickly he hadn’t even had time to react. But now… now there was a very dead man-shaped thing on the ground. He shuddered.

Pull it together, man, he silently chided himself. His bile rose, burning in his throat, but he refused to give in to it.

When the stench of the spilled blood hit him, though, his intentions all went for naught. He sat up, turned to the side and emptied his stomach, the beer tasting much more foul on the return trip.

Dean gave him a moment, took the time to clean off his blade and put it away, under his coat. He looked about for any possible witnesses and places to dispose of the body, all while keeping an eye on Castiel to make sure he was unharmed.

Castiel pulled his handkerchief out from his pocket, wiped up any remaining evidence of being sick, then turned back, forcing himself to look at the … holy hells, that was _not_ a man. His original impression of Teeth and Eyes was confirmed. The head was far more globe-shaped than any person he’d ever encountered, with wispy hair of uneven length growing from a grey skull mottled with green that resembled nothing so much as lichen.

He tried valiantly to ignore that the head was no longer attached to the torso, and was pooling blood on the walkway.

“What the hell is that?” He was proud of himself for how little his voice shook.

“Ghoul,” Dean answered, nonchalant. “Usually they disguise themselves walking around looking like the last person they ate. This… does not bode well.”

_The last person that they ate_ , Castiel mouthed to himself.

Dear God.

And Dean was taking all of this in stride, just another day at the office. For him, was it just another day at the office? He’d said as much, if not quite so explicitly. He’d been reticent, saying the bare minimum. But then he’d just whipped a sword out of nowhere and _lopped_ its _head_ off!

He gulped, swallowed hard.

Dean looked over at him and grimaced. “Sorry about that. You want to play lookout for me while I take care of this?” He toed at the body.

“Is that the best way I can help?” He was torn between avoiding looking at it and actually studying it. His curiosity had always been as much plague as strength.

“You tell me. What are you up for?” Dean paused to study him. “You just got sick from looking at it.”

“Yes, well… that is true. That is most definitely true. But I have had some infinitesimal amount of time to recover from the shock and surprise, and I believe I am capable of something more. How are you planning to… get rid of it?”

Dear God. Dean was experienced, and accomplished at, getting rid of bodies.

That was both disturbing and strangely compelling at the same time. How could he find that attractive? How? Maybe it was the sheer competence. Castiel had always admired proficiency in others, no matter what the skill.

“Burning is best, need to find somewhere out of the way to accomplish it. You do know this town better than I do.”

“The beach?” he suggested. “People occasionally have bonfires on the beach. It wouldn’t be remarked upon. I’m uncertain how to transport it there, however.”

“Thought I saw a cart in the alleyway. We can borrow it for a while, use that.”

Castiel’s instinctive reaction was to protest that borrowing without permission was the same thing as theft. However, under the circumstances, it seemed the lesser of two evils. Besides, they could return the cart afterwards.

Castiel took a deep breath, then nodded. “Yes. Right. That is a good plan. A very good plan. I will do that.”

The next hours passed in a surreal haze. Castiel found the small wooden cart and took it, feeling a strange mix of guilt and exhilaration. By the time he returned, Dean had wrapped the remains in scraps of canvas he must have found amongst the waste in the alley, and had done his best to remove the blood. If they were fortunate there would be rain tonight. If not, they might need to return with buckets of water and nonchalantly rinse the cobblestones, hoping that no authority figures passed in their direction.

If they did, Castiel thought it would be wise if he were to keep silent and let Dean do the talking. He suspected that Dean was adept at talking his way out of trouble.

Working silently and efficiently, Dean loaded the corpse into the cart, and they took the most direct route to the beach.

Dean set him to gathering driftwood from far enough up the shore that it was dry enough to burn, then directed him how best to arrange the kindling and the larger pieces of wood while he dug a pit. Castiel had to go stand by the surf upwind for a while as the remains burned, but it all went more quickly than he would have anticipated.

“I’m sorry you’re getting dragged into this world, Cas,” Dean said, lightly bumping their shoulders together as they watched the fire burning down.

Castiel made a non-committal sound in response to that. “Apparently this world has always existed, even if I was unaware of it.” He pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Are we done here? Is it time to go back?”

“We should wait for the fire to go out entirely. Nearly time. We should consider that the ghoul was sent after you on purpose.”

Castiel shuddered, but nodded. “That had occurred to me, in light of the carnage at my office and your telling me of Mr. Tran’s involvement with the book.” He tried not to let it show, but that idea was terrifying. If Dean hadn’t been with him, what would have happened when the ghoul jumped him?

Would there now be a monster masquerading about Havenport, wearing a skin looking exactly like Dr. Castiel Novak, searching for its next meal?

“I’m going to stay at yours, you shouldn’t be alone right now.” It clearly wasn’t a request.

Castiel looked at Dean, took in the determined set of that perfect jawline. “That would be appreciated,” he said. “I don’t have a second bed. You can take mine.”

“I am not going to take your bed.” Dean gave him a look. “Of the two of us I am certain I am more used to sleeping in unconventional places.”

That raised questions Castiel was not prepared to ask. “We’ll discuss further when we get back. For now… we have some distance to travel. At least the cart should be lighter now.”

Unfortunately, traveling from the beach also meant they had to walk uphill. Normally that wasn’t an issue for Castiel. He got around on foot most of the time, but it had been a long, exhausting day. By the time they got back to his house after returning the cart, he was nearly stumbling. He fumbled with the key, finally succeeding in opening the door. It took a moment to light the oil lamp, but soon a soothing light shone over the front room.

“I’ll get out the extra linens,” he said. If he was fortunate they might get a few hours of sleep before daylight.

“Show me where they are and I’ll take care of it. Clean up first, before you fall over asleep right on your floor.”

He was very authoritative for a guest, but Castiel found that oddly comforting. He nodded, got out the linens and then proceeded to wash up and change out of his ruined clothes. “Do you need a change of clothes? Yours have also seen better days.”

Dean looked down at himself. “Not so sure about that, but yes. Thank you, that would be appreciated.”

Castiel looked at Dean to judge his size. While they were roughly the same height, Dean had a more slender build, though his arms and shoulders were more muscular. The life of a scholar wasn’t conducive to building strength. Then again, Castiel preferred clothing that didn’t bind, so he should be able to find something that would suit. He located the bedding, then some clothes for Dean to change into after he took his turn washing up.

“I apologize for the lack of comfortable sleeping accommodations.” There wasn’t really anything other than the overstuffed chair, but he could give Dean his pillows.

“As I said, used to non-traditional options. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning, you heading back to the archives?”

“Yes, I’d like to see if I can make any headway on my office.” He stopped then as a thought occurred to him. “Unless it would be wiser to remain here, to discourage the thieves.”

“You can decide that in the morning, right now you’re exhausted and any decision you make will be compromised. It’s up to you, how much do you have here you would wish to protect?”

Castiel looked around. The question was depressing, honestly. “There isn’t that much of particular value, but it’s still mine and I would prefer it not be mindlessly destroyed.” And it was all he had.

Dean nodded. “We could put up a few protection wards. Could tip off anyone coming looking, though. Can you store some important things elsewhere?”

“I thought you said you didn’t work magic. I… perhaps we should discuss it further in the morning. I confess that right now I am so tired I can hardly see straight, let alone think coherently.”

“Right, sounds like a good plan. Good night, Cas.”

“Good night.”

The next day Castiel pulled his robe around himself, feeling self-conscious, before emerging from his room into the front room. Dean was still sprawled out on the upholstered chair, his feet on the ottoman, one pillow crammed under his head, the other bunched up in his arms. His mouth was slightly open. The sun, filtered through the lace undercurtains, shone on his face, illuminating the sprinkling of freckles on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose.

He truly was a beautiful man, Castiel thought, allowing himself the indulgence of admiring him for a moment while he slept.

Under Cas’ watchful eye, Dean stretched out and cracked an eye open. “Good morning,” he said, voice still rough from lack of sleep.

Castiel flushed a moment, looking away. “Good morning. Do you drink coffee? I’ve put some water on to boil.”

His sleep had been uneasy, after the previous night. Too many strange things swirling in his mind’s eye, around and around, with not enough context to make sense of them. Coffee would be most welcome.

“Yes, please. I would do nearly anything for a coffee right about now. You feel better after some sleep?” Dean stood up and finished his stretching. Castiel caught a quick glimpse of skin when the hem of his shirt rode up, along with a dusting of hair below his navel. He shivered, fearing that brief moment would live in his dreams for far too long.

“Better, yes. Still working on integrating this new paradigm into my world view.” He smiled crookedly. “Take a moment to freshen up. We still need to decide what to do with the soiled clothing from last night. Is there anything else you need to do to make sure no one takes undue note of the… scene?”

“No, we did what we could. No one will be able to trace what is left back to us. Other than perhaps those who sent the creature there in the first place.”

“And they’re already targeting us, me, so there’s no net change there. All right.” He finished the coffee, pouring both of them a mug full, then came to sit on his desk chair. “I have been thinking further, and… well. If they didn’t find what they were looking for at my office, it seems as though there would be little reason for them to return there, and every reason for them to come here, so a delay in returning to the museum and cleaning up the damage seems a reasonable price to pay for ensuring that no one comes here, or if they do that I at least have a chance to stand my ground and defend my belongings.”

“You want to stay right here, then, and confront whomever may come after you?”

“What’s your opinion?” he asked. “It’s not a long-term strategy. Is it better to wait for them, or… what were you planning to do? Wait for me to finish translating the spell book?”

“I was planning to come along with whichever avenue you chose. If you were specifically targeted, you do need to be watched.” Dean’s tone was gentle, almost apologetic.

“Then I will continue working on the translation. I hope that you will find some means to occupy yourself.” He pulled the book and his work out of his satchel once more, arranging it on the desk. He offered the completed pages to Dean so that he could read through them.

Dean asked to borrow some paper and sat in companionable silence as he went through and made his own notes based on Cas’ translations, starting to note patterns and possible useful information.

Eventually Castiel pushed back from the desk and stood up, stretching his back.

Dean watched him, stretched out his own legs. “Hey, Cas.”

Castiel turned to look at him, arching a brow in question.

“I’ve got an idea. What do you think of picking one of these simple spells, something minor, and seeing if we can make it work?”

“Would that be wise?”

“Fortune favors the bold,” Dean said with a grin. “Seriously, though, if we choose something relatively innocuous, it should be fine, right?”

Castiel wasn’t so sure, but at the same time, the idea of trying it was oh so tempting.

He held Dean’s gaze for a long moment, then finally nodded. The sense of exhilaration rising in his chest surprised him enough that he laughed.

Dean looked sharply at him, then grinned. “Now that is a sound I don’t think I’ve ever heard before. I like it.”

“What, me laughing?”

“Yes. You’re so serious all the time, Cas. A smile and a bit of laughter is good for you. Now let’s choose a spell.”

“In so much as I’ve thought about this at all – and I’m not saying I have – it seems that the one to light a flame would be the simplest. All it requires is something that will burn, preferably a candle, and a small piece of flint, small enough to carry in a pocket.”

“Yeah? That sounds good. Though maybe we should go outside. Just in case, you know, it creates a bigger flame than we were expecting?”

Castiel blinked at that, then nodded. “Yes, yes. You’re right, of course you are. I would be most displeased if any of my books were to catch fire.”

Dean shuddered. “Counterproductive there, yes. Okay. We won’t want to go far. But outside. Down by the water?”

“The last time we were outside the results were not optimal.”

“Yeah, but it’s early. Earlier. Ghouls don’t come out in the daylight hours. Most things that go bump in the night stay in the night. Not all. But most.”

“Well. All right, then. Do you have any flint?”

“I do, yes.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of stone. “Flint. Useful for many things. Shall we?”

Castiel nodded again.

They slipped out the door and walked around to the rear of the cottage, following the narrow pathway down to the shore. Castiel set a candleholder with a candle in it on the ground, then opened the book to the correct page. It was early in the journal, when the author was first starting to experiment with magic. That too argued in favor of it being a good place to start.

He was fairly certain this wouldn’t work, but he could admit to himself at least that he hoped it would. He took a breath, traced his finger lightly over the Enochian script. He found the start of the spell and began to read aloud, in Enochian.

At first nothing happened, though Castiel thought he might be feeling some sort of a pressure at the base of his chest. Then again, it might be nothing more than his excitement.

As the final words were spoken, the candle wick suddenly caught fire, dancing as though it were in a stiff breeze though there was no wind to speak of.

Fire. There was fire! Castiel’s eyes widened as he looked at Dean, incredulous.

“Hell’s bells, man, you did it! Oh my God, you _did_ it!”

“I did it!”

“Can you do it again?”

“I don’t know.”

Dean found a piece of driftwood high on the shore, drier than that directly on the beach, and set it down before Castiel. “Give it a try.”

Castiel looked at the wood and spoke the words again. This time he felt something inside when it happened, nearly impossible to describe. The closest he could come was to call it a surge of intent, emanating from his core and pushing outwards towards the object of his focus.

The wood crackled, then burst into flame, quickly consumed and falling apart in a tiny heap of ash.

“I did it again,” he exclaimed, full of wonder.

“Cas, man, this is amazing!” Dean clapped him on the back, then pulled him in for a quick, fierce hug.

Castiel hugged him back, holding him close. The giddiness he felt was foreign. He hadn’t felt anything like this since, since Alfie. He bent his head, resting his forehead in the crook between Dean’s neck and his shoulder. Inhaling, he could smell the uniquely spice and leather scent of the man, the salt tang of the ocean fading into the distance.

He felt himself getting hard. Mortified, he subtly shifted back to avoid any possibility of Dean noticing.

Dean pulled back, but only enough to curve his hand under Castiel’s jaw in an achingly gentle manner. “Cas?” His voice was rough around the edges, lower than usual, soft. Questioning. His beautiful green-eyed gaze shifted back and forth between Castiel’s eyes, searching for something.

He must have found it, because with a sub-vocal curse, he leaned in and pressed his lips against Castiel’s.

Castiel’s mind went blank for a moment, overwhelmed. Before his logic and self-doubt could kick in, his instincts made him surge forward to return the kiss, his hand blindly moving to cup the back of Dean’s head, his fingers pushing through the short hair. The texture was a little stiff from the salt in the air, but under the initial crackle it was soft. He heard a sound suspiciously like a low moan, then realized he’d made it.

Dean laughed against his mouth, then parted his lips to deepen the kiss. His mouth moved against Castiel’s, exploring, taking his lower lip between his teeth and nipping, then licking. “We should take this inside,” he suggested, his hand sliding down Castiel’s side before squeezing his hip.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, shivering with heady desire. “Inside.”

Dean laughed again, stroked Castiel’s hand and played with his fingers briefly before turning and heading back towards the cottage at a loping run.

Castiel laughed breathlessly and followed.

Once they were inside Dean closed and locked the door behind them, turned back to Castiel and helped him remove his coat. His hands felt burning hot even through the layers of his shirt and undershirt when they brushed against his sides. Dean looked into his eyes again. “This is okay, yes?”

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, his heart pounding crazy hard and fast. “Yes, Dean. Please.”

Dean smiled then, and Castiel’s heart flipped in his chest. He was in so much danger, but just now he didn’t care. The euphoria over finding he could work magic needed an outlet.

Besides, it wasn’t as though he hadn’t been _appreciating_ Dean from the moment they first met. He just hadn’t conceived that his appreciation might be returned.

Dean’s thumb stroked over the line of his throat, followed by his lips. He linked their fingers together, then led him through the door to the bedroom. Castiel hesitantly reached far back into his memory, recalling how to use his mouth and his hands for pleasure. Dean did the same, exploring each other, until they both shuddered with release and sagged back into the mattress.


	4. Chapter 4

When he could think again, Castiel turned his head to the side.

Dean looked back at him, smiled softly. He reached out to straighten Castiel’s hair. “Well. Amazing.” Then he leaned in to press a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. “As much as I would like to linger here and enjoy, I think we have a few other things to worry about before exploring this more.”

Castiel sighed, then nodded. “Agreed.” Magic. Richard Roman. Whatever he was after.

Suddenly he shot straight up in the bed. “Oh…” Without another word he bolted from the bed, back to the front room and the journal.

“What?” Dean followed, not bothering to cover himself any more than Castiel had.

“This happens, sometimes. I don’t understand it, but I also don’t argue with it,” Castiel said. “When my mind is consciously occupied with other things, it seems that my subconscious continues to work through puzzles, and then when I am relaxed or content, suddenly the fully-formed thought will break through in a eureka moment.” He rapidly flipped through the pages, not as careful as he usually would be with the delicate old text, until he found what he was looking for. “Dean. Come here.”

Dean came to his side, bare arm pressed against Castiel’s, and looked at the open book. “The drawing of the object said to hold the essence of the sorcerer Malak?”

Castiel nodded. “Dean, do you recall how I said I thought it looked familiar, that I must have seen other objects like it?”

Dean nodded.

“I thought at the time that I must have seen it in Europe, since it superficially resembles a religious reliquary. But that’s not where I saw it.” He turned towards Dean, dread weighing heavy like a stone in the pit of his stomach. “It was in Richard Roman’s office, on his desk. It caught my eye because the light was hitting it in a way to make the crystal at its core glow, which I thought unusual. Now, knowing that magic is real… I don’t think it was the ambient light at all, but rather that the crystal was glowing with its own energy.”

Dean swore. “There was something in the book about what circumstances could bring him back, right? Malak?”

Castiel nodded. “Yes. I don’t remember all of the details… something about certain conditions of the tide, a ritual, being in the right location… it was all very specific. As I recall, most of the really powerful spells referenced in the journal require more than just words and intent. They require rituals, and are particularly potent during the full or new moon.” He glanced towards the window. It was full daylight right now, so the look revealed nothing, but… “Dean. I believe tonight is the night of the full moon.”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean swore again. Then he ran a hand through his hair, his eyes going unfocused as he ran through scenarios in his head. Castiel was surprised that he already knew Dean well enough to know that was what he was doing. “Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen,” he said firmly. “First, we get dressed.” That merited a hint of a wry grin. “Then you’re going to find that section of the book, the one that talks about Malak and the ritual to bring his spirit back to this world, and figure out what the hell we can do to stop it.”

Castiel nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“We need to figure out where all of this is going to happen. I’m going to do a bit of… shall we say, intelligence gathering.”

Castiel’s gaze narrowed. “You are not going to the Roman estate. It’s too dangerous.”

“Cas. It’s what I do. Professionally. I’m an investigator. I investigate.”

“No. It’s too dangerous.”

“Dangerous or not, it’s necessary. You said tonight’s the full moon. If the ritual is tonight, and we can’t stop it, what do you think is going to happen? Do you think Malak is going to come back, then go skipping out into a field of daisies and weave a flower garland?”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t particularly like it either, but I don’t see a hell of a lot of other options. Look, I won’t take all day. I’ll be back here before dinner, and we’ll decide what to do. Oh, and while you’re studying ways to disrupt their ritual, maybe see if you can find some other magic spells that might be useful, hm? We know you can do it, now.”

“I worked one spell, Dean. One. I hardly think that qualifies me to go up against a ritual that’s been planned for… for I don’t even know how long.”

Dean grinned at him, slightly manic. “I have faith in you. Besides… you’re what we’ve got.” He darted in for another quick kiss, then slipped away to dress again.

Now that he had something specific and tangible to look for, Castiel found a great deal of information in the journal. As he’d thought, the ritual to bring Malak’s essence back and transfer it to a new host had to take place at the full moon. More than that, it had to be the full moon with the highest tide, and it needed to be near the sea. That explained why Roman had chosen Havenport.

Perhaps it also explained the strange lights to the north, in the direction of the sea caverns. He wanted to run this theory past Dean, see what he thought. Castiel checked his pocket-watch. 5:30; approaching dinner time. Surely Dean would return soon.

Dean didn’t return by six.

Castiel felt uneasy, but rationalized that perhaps he had gotten delayed. It didn’t have to mean he’d run into trouble.

Dean still hadn’t returned after another thirty minutes. By now Castiel was alternating his reading with pacing the narrow confines of his front room, trying to convince himself there was no reason to be afraid.

The problem was logic told him there was every reason to be afraid. They had been attacked. Malignant magic was clearly in the air, and aimed at them. Dean was a detective, he knew how to defend himself, how to care for himself. Yet he’d deliberately chosen to return to Roman’s estate, the place he highly suspected was at the center of everything.

Castiel paged through the book some more, scanning over the various spells again, determining what he had the components for, and envisioning ways he could use them, if they even worked. He debated with himself whether it would be more useful to practice more spells, beyond the single one he had successfully worked, or to spend that time studying the text.

He opted for more study, though he feared he was making the wrong choice.

Where was Dean? Had he found him, found the fragile beginnings of what could be a true relationship, only to lose it on the same day? No. He couldn’t fathom that thought. Fate could not be so cruel.

_Fate could be that cruel and more so._

Seven o’clock, and a mere delay was no longer a reasonable explanation. Something had happened to detain Dean.

All these months that he’d seen the strange lights on the horizon, dancing green and blue with streaks of violet, to the north. He’d thought them odd, almost lurid, yet with a compelling beauty. He’d never seen anything like them before. Still, he’d never been much of a naturalist, so when his colleague had dismissed them as curious but likely some natural phenomenon, Castiel had accepted that.

Now he feared they’d portended something much more ominous.

Everything was taking too long. Dean was in danger, Castiel knew it deep in his bones. His every instinct screamed at him to rush to him, but going unprepared would be worse than useless. He had to find and prepare the components for the spells he might use, had to check them again to make sure he’d read them correctly. He debated transcribing them into a less valuable book, but decided it wasn’t worth the time or the risk of copying something over incorrectly in his haste. Better to risk the book itself.

After he finally left his cottage tt took him over an hour to reach the portion of the shore where the sea caverns were located. In the darkness the rocks were treacherous. The risks were enormous, and despite his translations, he couldn’t help but fear that he was wrong, and Dean wasn’t here after all, that they’d chosen somewhere else to enact the ritual.

Even if he was right, he didn’t know for certain what he could do to stop them. He only knew he had to try.

As he drew nearer, he struggled with the wet rocks, and with the fear of slipping, hitting his head, being washed out to sea as the tide surged ever higher, covering more and more of the rocks. The entrances to the sea caverns would be submerged if he was too late. He’d heard that the caverns extended far enough into the cliffs that they would be higher than even the highest tides, but if that information was wrong…

He couldn’t think about that. If he did, he would freeze in terror, and Dean would certainly die. Or would he? The book spoke of Malak’s spirit being rehoused, but it didn’t say for certain whether the current occupant would be expelled.

He shuddered. He was quite certain that Dean would prefer death to life-long possession by an evil spirit. Or maybe Dean wasn’t the intended host.

Castiel couldn’t convince himself of that.

By the time he reached what he thought was the entrance to the main cavern – opinion bolstered by the sight of a wooden rowboat anchored at sea a short distance away – Castiel’s hands were bloody, his shins bruised, his breath coming hard and fast. He took a moment to calm down. It wouldn’t do to make his entrance huffing so loudly that he’d be heard long before he was seen, or saw anything else.

Once his heart rate had slowed enough, he moved forward, the tide already surging into the caverns. Please, please let him be right about this. Stories about unfortunate children playing here and drowning in the caves pushed at him, but he resolutely pushed them aside. This was dangerous, yes. Terrifying.

But if Dean died, and he did nothing? If the ritual was completed successfully, and the spirit of Malak was loosed upon the world?

If he had any chance to stop either, both, of those outcomes, he had to try.

The caverns echoed weirdly. He carefully made his way about one hundred feet deep, keeping his hand against the smooth cavern wall, before he started hearing the low murmur of voices over the sound of the water on the rocks. The darkness was frightening, but there was just enough luminosity from lichen to allow him to make his way forward despite the lack of a lantern.

Another hundred feet, and three curves of the tunnel, and he saw more light, flickering light. He wasn’t sure if it was lantern light or something magical.

It didn’t matter.

He stopped, took the risk of pulling out his pocket-watch and squinting to read the time. It was fast approaching midnight.

He had very little time remaining.

He moved forward, keeping behind rocks and outcroppings as much as possible, moving up alongside a pathway that clung to the edge of the tunnel as it opened up. The water still advanced at the lower portion of the cavern floor, and he had no idea how high he’d climbed, nor how much risk there was of the cavern flooding, but surely it was near to high tide.

One more turn, and the tunnel opened up into a large cavern.

The walls of the cavern were damp, but it appeared that symbols had been either painted onto the surface or carved and then lined with the luminescent mosses. They shed an eerie glow over the space.

Castiel recognized them as derived from Enochian, but he didn’t have the inclination to study them, for in the very center of the cavern was a marble slab with holes drilled into each corner, chains threaded through the holes and padlocked together, pinning Dean in place.

He’d been gagged with a blood red cloth that from this distance appeared to have been embroidered or painted with more of the symbols.

Circled around the slab were six robed and hooded people, four at the cardinal points, one slowly walking a circle outside the others, the sixth painting symbols on Dean’s naked chest. Dean twisted his torso with every stroke of the pen, hissing around the gag. From what he’d read in the journal, the paint was a mixture of blood and a weak acid – but clearly the acid was still strong enough to burn.

The sculpture from Roman’s office rested on a pedestal above Dean’s head. The figure standing there touched it, leaning close, fingers caressing the egg-shaped crystal, chanting at it. As Castiel watched, the crystal began to glow, pulsing like a heartbeat, as did the sigils painted on Dean’s skin.

Castiel closed his eyes, summoning his courage.

The figure lowered his hood, revealing Richard Roman. He smiled, a chilling smile, as he leaned forward over Dean, looking into his eyes. “Such an honor, Mr. Winchester,” he crooned. “To become one with the spirit of Malak is a privilege beyond all others. Far beyond the one I granted to your old partner, Mr. Lafitte. Yes, yes, I remember him. He was… disappointing, really. Fought against the transformation to the point where I had to concede failure and destroy him.”

Dean struggled against his restraints but was barely able to move.

“Master,” one of the other robed men spoke – the one making the circuit around the perimeter. “The tide has nearly reached the marker.”

Castiel looked, and sure enough, the farthest surge of the tide was nearly lapping against the base of the pedestal where Malak’s prison stood.

According to the information in the book, the salt of the sea water needed to mingle with blood. Roman pulled forth a blade from within his robes, examining its edge with an unholy glee.

There was no time to waste.

Praying with everything that he had that his education would not fail him now, when it was most important, Castiel reached into his trousers’ pocket and withdrew a small piece of sharp glass, broken from a mirror before he left home.

He focused on the pedestal holding the sculpture, and on the slab Dean was bound to.

Heart pounding, he stepped forward into the light.

Roman saw him. “Dr. Novak!” he cried out.

Dean turned his head as much as he could, his eyes going wide as he focused on Castiel.

Roman pointed at Castiel. “Seize him!”

The hooded figures turned towards Castiel as one, stepping forward. Adrenaline surged through him. It was now or never – and he had never done this before.

He wouldn’t, couldn’t, allow any doubts. He stood, turning towards the artifact as he reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the small packet he’d prepared earlier. He started chanting the words of the spell he’d memorized as he opened the leather pouch and poured its contents into his palm. He’d taken the time earlier to crush a brittle crystal into a fine powder. As he spoke the words, the air began to move around him, toying with his hair, with the collar of his coat. He used the broken glass to prick his finger, mixing the drop of blood with the other materials. The small amount of liquid shouldn’t have been enough to bind the other materials, yet everything came together into a sphere.

He slid to the side as one of the men got nearer, rushing the spell just a tiny bit. After the last word was spoken, he hurled the sphere in the direction of the pulsing green crystal.

The air caught the sphere and wrapped around it, forming a tiny but powerful vortex, shooting it like a bullet towards the artifact.

“NO!” Roman screeched, launching towards the object as it exploded in a cascade of shards, releasing a cloud of sickly green and purple. Castiel had the brief impression of a human form, but there was no time to study it.

In the chaos he lunged towards the slab where Dean lay. The marble slab cracked and shattered under his form when the crystal disintegrated, his chains falling slack, freeing him. “Dean!” He grabbed for the other man’s arm.

Dean scrabbled to pull the gag out of his mouth, throwing it to the side violently. “Cas!”

Castiel helped him to his feet, steadying him when he slipped on the powdered marble. All around him Roman and his minions were fighting to stay on their feet against the gale-force winds the spell had released.

“What have you done?” Roman cried out. “The work of years, a decade, ruined, RUINED!” With wild eyes he turned towards Castiel, flinging himself to him, the glint of a dagger suddenly appearing in his hand.

Dean threw Castiel behind himself, placing himself as a shield between them. “Asshole!” he cried out. “You can’t have him!”

He lowered himself down into a crouch. Castiel touched his back. “Dean, no.”

Dean didn’t pay any attention to him, all of his focus on Roman as the cloud billowed up to the ceiling of the sea cavern, sparking. “You dare—”

Castiel tugged Dean back towards the exit from the cavern.

Castiel stole a glance behind as they reached the tunnel. The magical cloud tried to come together, but the wind tore it apart, dispersing it. With one final effort, the last remnants of what had been the spirit of the sorcerer Malak descended upon the nearest human – Richard Roman. Tendrils of smoke entered his boy through his mouth and nostrils. Roman’s eyes opened wide as he choked, his screams suffocated in his throat without release. His skin turned a putrid green, then a shadow of violet cascaded across its surface.

“We need—”

“No, Dean, we can’t do anything for him. We have to get out!”

“But…”

“No! It’s too late!”

Even as he said that, Roman’s body disintegrated like the marble had.

His men stared.

“Yeah, okay.” Dean slid his hand down Castiel’s arm until it reached his wrist, then he tangled their fingers together, pulling him into the tunnel and away from danger.

Castiel handed Dean a mug of hot tea sweetened with honey, checking that the blanket was still snugly wrapped around his shoulders before he sat beside him, close enough that their thighs and shoulders touched. “You’re sure you’re well?” he asked, reaching out to brush Dean’s hair from his brow, careful not to touch the rapidly coloring bruise near his temple.

“I’m fine, Cas. Definitely had worse.”

“You do realize that isn’t actually a good argument.”

Dean smiled, cocky at first, then easing into something more fond and gentle. “Tell you what. How about I let you take care of me for a day or two? Make me some chicken soup, prop me up in bed and swaddle me in blankets?”

“And after that day or two? What happens next?” Castiel asked, summoning all his courage.

The smile faded away, replaced by a serious expression. “Well now. That’s the question, isn’t it.”

“It is the question I asked, yes.”

Dean toyed with the edge of the blanket. “I’ve been thinking about that. Now that Roman is gone, there’s no need to continue pursuing justice for Benny, right? I can stop, take a breath, decide what it is I really want to do with the rest of my life. Doesn’t have to be investigative work, right? Could be, but doesn’t have to be.”

Castiel nodded. “You can take some time to decide. And while you’re thinking about it… you’ll need a place to stay.” He ducked his head diffidently. “I don’t have a lot of room here, but maybe it’s enough?”

He leaned in. Castiel met him in the middle, sharing a sweet, gentle kiss.

Dean smiled. “Yes, Cas. It’s enough. _You’re_ enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> This work was based on a summary of the novel Widdershins by Jordan L. Hawke. I avoided actually reading the novel until I had a good idea of where I wanted to go with this fic, because I didn't want to be influenced by it. I did cave and read it before I was completely done with the first draft, and enjoyed it immensely. If you like this type of story, I highly recommend it.


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